After his quarrel with Nathalie, AdhÉmar sought distraction and pleasure to no purpose; go where he would, he found neither. When one loves truly, it is a very painful thing to cease to see her whose presence had a never-failing charm; one tries in vain to put a brave face upon it, and to tell one's self that a lost love is readily replaced by another; in reality, we cannot tear a beloved image from our hearts so easily; we are conscious of an aching void, a brooding melancholy which follows us everywhere; and we prefer the memories of the past for which we sigh to all the pleasures that the present has to offer us.

AdhÉmar was unhappy, and dissatisfied with himself; and yet he strove to convince himself that he was justified in breaking off that intimacy which had so much charm for him.

"I loved her," he would say to himself; "I loved her sincerely, but she did not love me, for she deceived me. That pipe case did not belong to any woman. So that she received visits from men without telling me! and when one's mistress once has mysteries of that sort in her life, everyone knows what it means. And that smell of tobacco, which I had noticed before! That smoker must have come often to see her! Ah! Nathalie, Nathalie! you who were the woman I had dreamed of—to be loved by whom would have made me so happy! But, no, women cannot be faithful; why should she have acted differently from the others?"

On a certain day, when the young author was walking along the street in gloomy mood, thinking such thoughts as these, he suddenly found himself face to face with Lucien, who, also, was sighing dolorously.

"Ah! Lucien!"

"AdhÉmar!"

"Where are you going, my dear Lucien?"

"I am going—upon my word! I don't know where I am going. I am walking about at random—I am so unhappy! so desperate!"

"Really? Come, tell me your troubles, my poor Lucien. I am none too cheerful myself, by the way. So we will share our sorrows; that always helps a little. Hasn't your invention, your little business enterprise, succeeded?"

"Why, yes, it is going on very well, and that is just the reason I am in such despair."

"I don't understand you."

"As my business seemed to be prospering, I thought I might hope that Juliette's hand would be given to me at last. But, instead of that, Monsieur Mirotaine has turned me out of his house and forbidden me ever to go there again, all because Dodichet conceived the unfortunate idea of helping along my suit by introducing to the Mirotaines a pretended millionaire Italian count, who was to propose for Juliette; they got themselves invited to dinner, and Monsieur Mirotaine went to some expense to entertain them. Then DubottÉ arrived and laid bare the fraud. Monsieur Mirotaine saw that they had made a fool of him, and he is convinced that I was in the plot with Dodichet; hence his anger against me, and the prohibition to go to his house again!"

"What a devil of a fellow that Dodichet is! I remember perfectly that you definitely forbade him to play one of his wretched jokes on this Mirotaine."

"He meant to do me a service, so I can't be angry with him. And yet, he is the cause of my being turned out of the house."

"That old miser's anger will cool down, if you succeed in your undertakings. His daughter will make him listen to reason."

"But meanwhile I can't see her, or have any understanding with her. When I was admitted to her father's house, we found ways of exchanging a word or two in secret. But now that I can never see her, how am I to let her know anything about me? Why, to be unable to see, even for a single minute, the woman one loves, is the cruelest kind of torture, AdhÉmar, I tell you!"

"To whom are you saying that?"

"Do you mean to say that you can't see the woman you love?"

"In other words, the woman I loved did not love me! or she deceived me, which amounts to the same thing. So I ceased to see her; and yet, I know perfectly well that I love her still."

"Are you quite sure that she deceived you?"

"Quite sure; as sure as a man can be when he sees that a woman has secrets from him. Tell me, Lucien, suppose you should learn that your Juliette received visits, of which she never breathed a word to you; wouldn't you think that she had some intrigue on hand? I assume, of course, that she is living in her own apartment and is mistress of her actions."

"If Juliette was her own mistress and lived in the most modest little room imaginable, it would be of no use for anyone to say to me: 'She receives other men than you;' I would not suspect her for an instant!"

"Sapristi! what confidence! And suppose you had proof that she received men secretly?"

"Why, I should consider that she must have some reason for concealing those visits from me; for she certainly has none for telling me, for swearing to me that she loves me, if she doesn't love me. When I enter the room where she is, doesn't she always receive me with the sweetest smile? can I not read in her eyes all the pleasure that my presence affords her? Ah! not until she ceased to be the same to me, should I have the slightest fear that she no longer loved me!"

"You have a happy disposition, and no mistake! You are not jealous, are you?"

"Oh, no! not at all!"

"Tell me, do you know Madame Dermont? She is a friend of Mademoiselle Juliette, I believe?"

"Madame Dermont? Yes; I met her several times at Juliette's before Monsieur Mirotaine had forbidden me to talk with his daughter. She's a most attractive woman. Juliette has no better friend. They tell each other their joys and their sorrows, and neither of them has any secrets from the other. She knows that Juliette loves me; and if she could do anything to help us, she would ask nothing better. But she hasn't the power, poor woman! She has had a heap of trouble of her own."

"Who? Nathalie?—I mean Madame Dermont. What trouble? She never mentioned it to me."

"Do you know her, then?"

"Yes, a little. I go to her house sometimes. But this trouble of hers? Tell me about it, I beg you, dear old Lucien!"

"I heard about it from Juliette, to whom, as I just told you, Madame Dermont confides all her sorrows."

"But these troubles of hers? these troubles? for God's sake, come to the point!"

Lucien looked at AdhÉmar with a smile, as he replied:

"How deeply interested you seem to be in anything that concerns that young woman! Can it be, by any chance——"

"Yes, yes, I love her, I adore her, I am mad over her! And these troubles?—in pity's name, my friend, tell me all you know!"

"Madame Dermont, as you know, is a widow; but her husband had a brother,—a sad scamp, by the way,—who would never do anything but drink, gamble, smoke, and haunt low resorts. When Monsieur Dermont died, Alexandre—that was the brother's name—Alexandre was frantic with rage when he found that he was not his heir, but that the whole fortune—rather a modest one, by the way—which his brother had left went to the widow. He called on his sister-in-law, made an unpleasant scene, and went so far as to threaten her; but she has a clear head and a strong character, and she turned him out of the house. Thereupon, Alexandre saw that he had gone to work in the wrong way, and that he would not obtain anything from Madame Dermont by threats; so he called on her again, and that time he did not play the swashbuckler, but wept and whined over his sad plight. The young widow did not turn him out again, but gave him five hundred francs and advised him to enlist; that was the only profession in which he could hope to make anything of himself. Alexandre promised to follow that advice; but, after a few months, he came back to his sister-in-law and told her he was dying of hunger, that he had eaten nothing since the day before; and he smelt horribly of brandy and tobacco!"

"And tobacco? He smoked, did he? Ah! now I understand. Poor woman! But why didn't she tell me all this?"

"Why? Because it is a painful thing to say that a man who is closely allied to you, who bears your name,—for Alexandre's name is Dermont,—in fact, you don't like to confess that such a ne'er-do-well, such a blackguard, is your brother, or that he has, at all events, the right to call you his sister."

"And the wretch has come again to torment Nathalie, I suppose?"

"Mon Dieu! yes; she doesn't know how to get rid of him! And yet, it is very hard to continue giving money away when it serves only to encourage vice and debauchery."

"Oh! I'll rid her of her miserable brother-in-law! Dear Nathalie! But why didn't she confide in me? No matter! I am a wretch; I am unworthy to be loved by such a sweet, dear woman!—Lucien, give me your hand. Ah! my friend, if you knew how much good you have done me! You have brought me back to life, to happiness, to love—that is to say, to her! Adieu, Lucien, adieu! I hasten—I fly to beg for forgiveness. She will grant it, won't she? she will grant it?"

Without waiting for a reply, AdhÉmar walked hurriedly away in the direction of Madame Dermont's; but when he drew near, and could see the house in which she lived, he slackened his pace; he began to wonder how she, whom he had left so cavalierly in consequence of his unjust suspicions, would receive him. And when he reached the door, he stopped; he dared not go in, but cudgelled his brain to find some pretext, some excuse, for calling.

He had been standing for some minutes, irresolute, before the porte cochÈre, when he was abruptly pushed aside by a person who said to him in a hoarse voice as he entered the house:

"Stand aside there! Don't you see that you're blocking up the door?"

The speaker was a man of about thirty, very carelessly dressed, whose hat was dented in several places; his face was prematurely old and bloated, his manner was vulgar and impertinent, he was saturated with tobacco, and seemed to be slightly tipsy.

"Where are you going, monsieur?" the concierge called to him as he passed through the porte cochÈre and started for the staircase, while AdhÉmar, who was on the point of calling him to account for the discourteous way in which he had pushed him aside, waited to hear his reply.

"Where am I going? Sacrebleu! you know well enough; this ain't the first time I've been here! I'm going up to my sister's—Madame Dermont."

"Madame Dermont is out, monsieur."

"You always say the same thing; and you know that I go up, all the same."

"I have been expressly forbidden to let you go up, monsieur, and this time you shan't go!"

"I shan't go up! is that all, old dormouse? Just think of that! Madame Dermont won't receive me! But I am Alexandre Dermont, her husband's brother, and she has no right to close her door to me; and I'm going up, all the same, and you can go hang, concierge! And my sister-in-law will have to receive me, because—because——"

Monsieur Alexandre did not finish his sentence, because someone stood before him, barring his passage, and forced him back, looking him steadily in the eye.

"Well, well!" he muttered; "what does this fellow want?—Let me pass, I say!"

"I want you—yes, you, Monsieur Alexandre Dermont."

"I don't know you—let me go upstairs!"

"You shall not go upstairs, you shall not go to your sister-in-law's, who is perfectly justified in refusing to admit a miserable wretch, a scoundrel of your stamp!"

"What! what do you say? What business is it of yours?"

"I say that you're a low-lived hound, that you call on Madame Dermont for no other purpose than to worm money out of her, which you spend in orgies and debauchery! And you are not ashamed to be guilty of such conduct! Do you think that Madame Dermont's modest fortune will serve to gratify your passions forever? No, monsieur; don't count upon it. I forbid you—do you hear?—I forbid you to show your face at your sister-in-law's again!"

"By what right, I should like to know?"

"By the right that every decent man has to protect a woman who is abused and threatened and robbed!"

"Oh! you make me tired! I propose to go up."

And Monsieur Alexandre, turning half around, tried to reach the stairway. But AdhÉmar overtook him, seized him by the throat, and held him against the wall, saying:

"If you make another attempt to go up those stairs, I'll smash your head against this wall!"

"You're choking me, monsieur!"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes; but let me go!"

"Will you swear never to come to Madame Dermont's again?"

"Yes, I swear; but you are murdering me! I left a pipe case at my sister's; I came to get it."

"You didn't come on any such paltry errand as that; you came to ask that lady for more money, dastard that you are!"

"You insult me, monsieur!"

"Ah! you feel that you are insulted, do you? Very well! if you have the least bit of pluck, come with me, and I'll give you satisfaction. There's a gunsmith's close by; we can go there and get pistols, and take a cab. Come!"

"I, fight! I think I see myself! no, thanks! Let me go; I've had enough! I swear I won't come here again."

"Go, then; but if you fail to keep that oath, I swear that I won't fail to shoot you!"

Monsieur Alexandre did not stay to listen to any more; he ran away as if he feared pursuit. Thereupon the concierge, who had armed himself with his broom to support AdhÉmar if necessary, exclaimed:

"Ah! monsieur, how lucky it is that you happened to be here to drive that miserable scamp away! He wouldn't listen to me—but you! Why, you gave him such a shaking that I warrant he'll never come again. You have done Madame Dermont a very great service, I promise you!"

"Has she really gone out?"

"No, monsieur, no; she hardly ever goes out lately; but those were my orders for that rascal. You can go up, of course; she'll be glad to see you."

AdhÉmar went upstairs, but paused at Nathalie's door; he was intensely excited.

"She hardly ever goes out, so the concierge said," he thought. "Has she been sick? Am I the cause of it? Oh! this infernal jealousy! How will she receive me? No matter! I will see her, and die at her feet if she doesn't forgive me."

He rang with a trembling hand; the maid opened the door, and uttered a cry of joy when she saw who it was. Servants almost always divine their mistress's secret thoughts, and this one was very sure that AdhÉmar's return would bring back joy and happiness to the house, which had been very gloomy since he had ceased to come.

"Ask Madame Dermont if she will see me," said AdhÉmar.

The servant, with a beaming face, hurried away to her mistress, and returned almost immediately to say that he might go in. AdhÉmar did not wait for the words to be repeated. He found Nathalie holding her embroidery frame in her hand, but not working. A glance sufficed to show him that she was pale and changed, and that her features wore an expression of profound melancholy. AdhÉmar could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at Nathalie's feet; he seized her hands and pressed them in his own, crying:

"Mercy! forgive me! if you could only know how I have reproached myself! but I will not offend again, I swear! I am cured. Oh! I have been so unhappy ever since I saw you last!"

"And what about me, monsieur? Do you think that I have not been unhappy? Why didn't you come back sooner? What prevented you?"

"Because—I didn't know—— Look you, Nathalie—I will not lie to you—to-day I met Lucien, and I learned from him that you had a brother-in-law who smoked——"

"And then you understood that I had no other intrigue. Bad boy! if you hadn't left me so abruptly, I would have told you the whole story; but when jealousy takes possession of you, it is impossible to make you listen to reason."

"Hereafter, my confidence in you will be absolute. You love me—you forgive me once more, do you not?"

"Yes, but this is the last time; for such scenes are too painful to me."

At that moment they heard the servant laughing uproariously. Nathalie rang for her and asked her the reason of that outburst of merriment.

"Oh! madame, hasn't monsieur told you what he did to your scamp of a brother-in-law? The concierge just told me. Monsieur took him by the throat and turned him out of the house, and promised to cut him in pieces if he ever dared to come to see you again!"

"Is this true, AdhÉmar?"

"Yes; did I do wrong?"

"Oh! far from it; you have done me a very great service. It seems that I am destined to be saved by you from all sorts of dangers! You see, monsieur, that you did wrong to desert me!"

AdhÉmar's only reply was to cover with kisses the hand she abandoned to him; and the maid returned exultantly to the kitchen, crying:

"What joy! The man with the quid of tobacco won't come here again!"